


Don't

by Rosawyn



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bad Decisions, Better Decisions, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Blow Jobs, Boundaries, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Consent Issues, Crossdressing Kink, Drunken Kissing, Dysfunctional Relationships, Idiots in Love, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Intoxication, Kneeling, Light Dom/sub, Love Confessions, M/M, Masturbation, Memory Loss, Multi, Nail Polish, Natasha Is a Good Bro, Non-Consensual Kissing, Polyamory, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovered Memories, Sexual Dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 07:34:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2804612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosawyn/pseuds/Rosawyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky struggles with issues of consent, with memories that confuse him, and with <i>Steve</i>, who keeps changing the rules.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't

The door swings shut behind them with a disgruntled thump as Bucky pulls off his jacket and tosses it at the hook, and misses. He can pick it up later—unless _Steve_ picks it up later, which he might, complaining the whole time—so he leaves it where it falls, a crumpled heap on the floor.

“I don't know why _you_ had to come home, Buck,” Steve grumbles as he tugs off his shoes. “Wouldn't exactly be the first time you went home with _both_.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I didn't like either of those girls, let alone both.” And like he was going to let Steve walk home alone, in the mood he's in and under the effects of alcohol.

Sighing in exasperation, Steve sways a bit on his feet. He's only had one drink—or was it two? But he's so _tiny_. “Why'd you ask 'em if you didn't like 'em?”

Catching Steve by the elbow so he doesn't fall, Bucky steers him until his back's against the wall. They probably should both sit down, actually, but the couch looks _so far_ away. “I liked how they looked is why I asked 'em; they were pretty enough, weren't they?” Steve nods. “But they started lookin' a lot less pretty when they treated you like trash.” His fingers wrap protectively around Steve's bony shoulder—he's stable enough, leaning against the wall, but still. And technically, this isn't the first time girls have treated Steve badly, but these two were more blatant than most, neither even making a pretence at being polite.

“They didn't like me,” Steve says fiercely, “because there's nothing for a girl to _like_.” He rolls his eyes, making a disgusted noise in his throat. “How do you _expect_ girls to react? It's not like I'm _you_. I'm short, skinny, sickly—hell, I don't even have a nice face, Buck.”

Bucky narrows his eyes, protective heat spreading in his chest. “'Course you do, Stevie.” He runs his fingers gently from Steve's cheekbone to his jaw. “You've got a _gorgeous_ face.”

Steve rolls his eyes again and swats Bucky's hand away. “You're _drunk_.”

Bucky cocks his head in confusion. “So?”

“So you wouldn't think I looked good if you were sober.” Steve folds his thin arms across his narrow chest, raising his chin and meeting Bucky's eyes with that unmovable look he gets sometimes.

“I always think you're gorgeous,” Bucky admits, crowding closer and breathing out a surprised laugh at his boldness. This isn't stuff he's supposed to say out loud, but...gosh. _Steve_. He can't think that way about himself, as if he _deserves_ disrespect. Steve is still glaring at him, so Bucky goes on, tilting his head and pitching his voice low and soft, “You've got a pair of the most lovely eyes—soft blue and softer lashes. And I love the way you stick your jaw out like this when you're angry.” He runs his fingertips over the wonderfully stubborn jaw.

“Bucky, what—?” Steve's frowning in adorable confusion, so Bucky leans in—God, he's wanted to kiss Steve for so long. His nose bumps Steve's, and he giggles a bit. He can smell the alcohol on Steve's breath.

“Bucky, _don't_ ,” Steve says, eyes widening in alarm and hands catching fistfuls of Bucky's shirt. Ignoring his protests, Bucky grips Steve's jaw to hold him in place and presses a kiss to his tantalizing lips, soft and wet and tasting faintly of whiskey. Steve gasps, and Bucky chuckles against his parted lips as Steve's grip on Bucky's shirt tightens. But then Steve's wrenching his head to the side and shoving at Bucky, so Bucky pulls back a bit, watching the fluttering way Steve's chest is moving and the graceful motion of his throat as he swallows. “What the _hell_ , Bucky?” he demands—he's still not meeting Bucky's eyes, and his cheeks are warm and pink and beautiful.

“I've wanted to kiss you so damn long,” Bucky says, a little breathless himself. Then he frowns, suddenly worried. “It wasn't bad, was it?” He lets out a breath. “I wanted...I wanted you to like it.”

Finally meeting Bucky's eyes, Steve shakes his head, swallowing again. “No, Buck; it wasn't bad.” Bucky grins, happy and relieved, but Steve's frowning again—Steve frowns altogether too much. Even if he is still completely adorable—and sometimes a little terrifying—when he frowns. “But _why_ did you want to kiss me?” His eyes harden to a glare. “If you're just trying to make me feel better...”

Bucky shakes his head quickly. “No.” Not _just_ that. “I think I—” He makes an exasperated sound, looking away. “I'm in love with you, stupid.”

“Oh,” Steve says softly. Then, voice cracking, “You mean that?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits, nodding. “It's okay if you don't...” He shrugs. “I just—I've wanted you to know, but it doesn't...doesn't have to change anything.” His eyes find Steve's again for a moment before Steve's throwing his wiry arms around Bucky, pressing himself into Bucky's chest.

“You stupid _jerk_ ,” Steve gasps, breath hot and damp through Bucky's shirt.

“Hey,” Bucky pets at Steve's hair, and Steve doesn't shrug him off, so he counts it as a win. “I guess...I probably should have told you sooner.”

“Yeah, and maybe when we weren't both drunk?” Steve adds acidly. Pulling back about as far as he can with the wall still at his back, he keeps his hands on Bucky's sides as he looks up at him, a few rebel tears streaking damp trails across his face. Bucky brushes them away with his thumb.

“Oh, Stevie,” he apologizes. “I didn't mean to make you cry.”

Clenching his jaw, Steve glares at him, blue eyes glistening. “You didn't.” He takes a damp, rough breath, sliding one hand deliberately to grip the back of Bucky's neck, then demands, “Now kiss me again.”

o0o

The Soldier is trying. It's _so hard_ most of the time, but he is trying. But... _Bucky_. Not, 'the Soldier'. That's— Steve calls him 'Bucky'; it's his new designation—name, it's his _name_. He has one now—again. Because Bucky is who he was before, who he must be again. Bucky. He's trying.

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen table, sipping a mug of hot coffee and watching Steve scramble eggs. The caffeine does about as much for him as alcohol would, but it's _warm_. He likes warm. “The coffee is...good,” he says, watching Steve carefully to be sure he's doing this right. Steve always wants to know what he thinks, what he feels, what he wants. It's important. Steve's friends, Sam and Natasha, agree it's important. Even if it doesn't _feel_ important. (He doesn't tell them that anymore; they didn't want to know that one.)

But Steve smiles now, bright as summer sun. “I'm glad you like it.” Even though it's really the same as he makes every morning. But it _is_ good.

“I like...” Bucky tries, encouraged by Steve's reaction, “that it's warm.” He grimaces a little, peeking at Steve through his bangs. “I like warm?” He's starting to figure things out.

“That's good; that's great, Buck,” Steve says, scraping the scrambled eggs onto plates and bringing them to the table. His eyes are doing that crinkly thing they do that makes something odd happen in Bucky's chest. “I'm...happy when you enjoy something.” (Maybe feelings are hard for Steve sometimes too.) Sitting down, he keeps smiling at Bucky as he starts poking at his eggs.

Bucky picks up his own fork and starts to eat. The eggs are...well, they're _food_. They're not _bad_. And they _are_ warm, but... He—he wants to have feelings about things, to make Steve smile at him, but...maybe there's a limit, and he has to wait for a while to let that part of himself rest. But...there is one thing he knows. Reaching out, he takes Steve's hand in his flesh one. “I like _you_ , Steve.”

Steve grins, ducking his head all bashful and peeking through soft honey-hued lashes. “'Cause I'm warm?”

Bucky thinks for a while, chewing a bite of egg. That's part of it. That is one thing he likes about Steve. But there are so many other things. Like his eyes. And his eyelashes. And every single one of his smiles. And Steve takes care of him, feeds him, is always gentle with him. But it's more than even _that_. Looking at Steve, he narrows his eyes a bit, considering. “I liked you before?”

Steve nods, swallowing, and there's a shimmer of tears in his eyes, and Bucky really hopes he hasn't done something wrong, because he hadn't meant to make Steve _cry_. Clearing his throat, Steve says, “Yeah; we were best friends. I think, um—” He ducks his head again, all smiles and shy glances and apology. “Some of the time anyway, you liked me a lot.”

o0o

As soon as the door closes behind them, Steve rounds on Bucky, all tiny and beautiful and radiating righteous fury. “What the _hell_ , Bucky?” His eyes flash, lightning in a clear sky.

Bucky holds up his hands. “Whoa, hey.” He can't help the sly grin tugging at his mouth. “Easy there, punk.”

Placing his hands on Bucky's chest, Steve gives him a furious shove, and Bucky retreats until his back hits the door with a quiet thud. “Don't you _ever_ do that again.”

“But...” Bucky tries for his most pitiable eyes, his most endearing pout. “You _like_ it when I touch your butt.” To prove his point, he blatantly palms one cute little cheek through Steve's slacks, grinning in triumph at the way Steve bites his lip and screws his eyes shut to keep from gasping all wide eyes and open mouth like he does when he's relaxed and happy, when he lets himself enjoy what Bucky offers.

Steve thumps Bucky's chest with twin fists, the impacts stinging. “It's different when we're here, and you know it.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. Sure, they were in public, but, “No one _saw_ , Stevie. I made sure.” No one _could_ have seen; he was far more careful than he really had to be.

Letting out a huff, Steve turns away, brushing his bangs off his forehead and muttering, “You wanna sleep on the damn couch tonight, Barnes?”

“Oh, come on, doll,” Bucky begs, following Steve, hands open in supplication. “I'll be good, I promise. I'll make you feel _so_ good.”

Whirling around, eyes flashing, Steve snaps, “I ain't a 'doll', Bucky. I know I'm not much of a _man_ , but I ain't gonna wear lipstick for ya, and I sure as hell ain't gonna wear a skirt.”

“Stevie...” Bucky tries, “'M sorry; I didn't mean _that_.” He kneels before Steve, face tilted back so he can look up into that angry little face. He runs his tongue across his lower lip. He swallows. “You know you're my man.” He ducks his head, blushing a bit and peeking at Steve through his lashes. “And I'm pretty sure if one of us was gonna wear a skirt, it'd be me.”

Steve folds his arms, looking down at Bucky with one eyebrow raised in consideration. “You'd wear a skirt for me, Buck?”

Bucky nods, offering Steve a lopsided smile and a shrug. “If you wanted.” He'd do _anything_ if Steve wanted. He wets his lips again. “It's too bad we don't have a skirt, 'cause I'd put it on right now and let you fuck me in it.”

Steve's nostrils flare and his eyes flash darkly. “I don't want you t' wear a skirt, Bucky.” Bucky tries not to roll his eyes, because that sure didn't _look_ like the opposite of want.

o0o

Bucky has his own bed, but he never sleeps there the whole night. Steve doesn't mind when he crawls in with him—he always wakes at least a bit but settles again once he knows it's Bucky. Bucky likes to touch Steve, to curl around him. Sometimes, he kind of wants to nip at Steve's ear when they're cuddled together, but he's not sure what to do with that, so he keeps it to himself. It sort of feels like something a dog might do, and Bucky's not a dog. He's a man. And maybe he's not entirely sure what that means yet, but he wants _so badly_ to be the person Steve remembers.

“I...I used to get drunk a lot,” Bucky says into the quiet one night. He knows Steve's still awake from the rhythm of his breathing.

“When you had the money,” Steve confirms, rolling onto his back and turning his head on the pillow so he can look at Bucky in the low light. “You'd go out dancing, always have a drink or two—sometimes more.”

“I can't anymore.” It probably feels like a bigger loss than it should be, but it's one of the few memories he _has_ , dammit.

“I can't get drunk either,” Steve says, shrugging a bit. But...maybe he never liked it as much as Bucky did.

“You'd come with me?” Bucky isn't sure he quite remembers that, but it feels right. (Maybe he just wants it to be right; maybe he just wants to be with Steve, forever.)

“Dancing?” Steve smiles a bit. “Yeah, when you could talk me into it. But...I mean, I wouldn't _dance_...” His grimace turns into an apologetic smile and he shrugs one shoulder.

Bucky's brow furrows in confusion. Steve would come with him, but not dance. It doesn't make sense—why come at all? “So you...just watched me dance?”

Steve laughs softly. “Yeah, I was pretty pathetic, I guess.”

Bucky grimaces. That doesn't sound right; Steve could never be anything bad or negative or... “You were smaller,” he says, because that's one thing he's pretty sure of.

Steve nods. “Yeah, a bit.” He smiles, lopsided.

Bucky flashes Steve a shy smile. “But you were still pretty.”

A surprised laugh bursts from Steve's mouth, and he blushes bright and warm—it's nice. “Most people didn't think so, Buck.”

And Bucky wants to say, 'I did'; he wants _so badly_ to be so _sure_ of _one thing_ this _one time_. He bites the inside of his cheek angrily. He almost says, 'Did I?' but that would be awful, so instead he says, “Didn't I?” because at least that's a little better.

Steve smiles, soft, with sadness in his eyes. “You, um.” Clearing his throat, he turns his head and stares up at the ceiling. He blinks a few times. “Yeah...I think you did.”

Burying his face in Steve's shoulder, Bucky mumbles, “You're very pretty, Steve.” He's tired now. But it feels important that Steve know.

Steve's hand is kind where it strokes Bucky's flesh arm. “Thanks.” There's still a blush, still shyness lurking there, but acceptance threads through Steve's voice as well, so Bucky counts it as a win.

o0o

He can be forgiven—

o0o

They're watching a movie—something animated, because Steve's into art and all—about animals, and it isn't _real_ , but Bucky's crying. And he's trying so hard to be quiet, not to ruin the movie for Steve, but... Sighing, Steve pauses the movie.

“I'm sorry!” Bucky says, shaking his head. “I—you should—you should watch it.” Steve had _wanted_ to watch it. “I can go in the other room.” He doesn't _want_ to go in the other room, doesn't _want_ to be alone, but...he can't stop _crying_.

“It's all right, Bucky,” Steve says, all gentle and warm and radiating affection like heat. He puts his hand on Bucky's shoulder. “It was meant to be sad; you're—well, you're kinda supposed to cry.” And Bucky notices, now that he actually pulls his attention out of himself enough to see, that Steve has tears matting his own lashes.

With a groan, Bucky slams himself into Steve's chest, wrapping his arms tight and fierce around Steve's shoulders. “Want you to be happy,” he says against his neck.

Steve pets his hair a bit, running his other hand up and down Bucky's back in soothing strokes. “I am, Buck; you make me happy.”

Warm, pleased hope soars in Bucky's chest. “You...” Pulling back a bit and rubbing the worst of his tears away with the back of his flesh hand, Bucky shoves his hair out of his face with his metal one so he can look into Steve's gentle eyes. He bites his lip. “You make _me_ happy.”

Steve smiles like he's not sure he's allowed.

o0o

—if he doesn't quite understand how it all works.

o0o

They've been running with Sam—or, more accurately, running together and passing Sam a whole lot—and they're back home now, door closing with a cheerful bang as Steve laughs at a joke Clint told Bucky the other day. Bucky tried to tell it how Clint had, tried to sound confident and a little sly—it was that kind of joke, and it's got Steve blushing a bit under the pink of his exertion flush.

Pushing Steve against the wall—shirt sweaty and sticking to his skin—Bucky leans in and runs his tongue over the warm, bright skin on Steve's cheekbone. It tastes like salt, tinged with heaven.

“Bucky, what—?” Steve blinks at him in confusion. Bucky runs his metal thumb over Steve's bottom lip then slides his metal hand around to grip the side of Steve's neck, leaning in to nip at Steve's ear as his flesh hand finds the shape of Steve's muscular thigh through the fabric of his sweatpants. He knows he's done this before—with Steve, when he was big, when he was small—so it can't be that strange to want it now. But Steve flinches away, head thumping against the wall. “Bucky, _don't_.”

“Wanna make you feel so good,” Bucky breathes against Steve's neck, sliding his hand to palm Steve's crotch, earning a sharp hiss for a fragment of a moment before—

“ _Bucky!_ ” Steve's hand clamps around Bucky's flesh wrist, wrenching it away. Bucky lets it go limp in Steve's grip, blinking at Steve in confusion. He _remembers_ this. He remembers...

“I love you,” Bucky tries, a little more desperate than he'd meant to sound.

“Oh, Bucky,” Steve says, and the look flashes in his eyes like he wants to hug him, but he _doesn't_. “That—that's not—” He swallows, blinking a few times. “We need to talk about this. Um...” Pressing his lips together thoughtfully for a moment, Steve makes a decision. “Come sit down?”

Bucky follows meekly, letting Steve lead him by the wrist. Steve sits at one end of the couch, turned slightly toward the middle, so Bucky mirrors his pose at the other end. Steve drops his wrist, so they're not touching at all anymore. Bucky stares down at his lap. He knows he's done something wrong, but he just can't figure out how. He's been trying _so_ hard. He's been _remembering_. “I'm sorry,” he tries when Steve doesn't immediately speak.

Steve nods carefully then asks, voice low, “Do you understand why that was wrong?”

“No.” Bucky's voice cracks and he can't stop the tears that spill out and run down his face.

Steve clenches his jaw, swallows. “Do you...even understand _what_ you did that was wrong?”

Bucky shakes his head, miserable. He's lost all of Steve's pleasure, all of Steve's approval—what if he never gets it back? He wants to curl up somewhere small and dark and just _stay_ there. “I'm sorry,” he tries again, voice broken and damp. His shoulders shake, tremble. _Please_. He doesn't know what to do.

“Bucky...” Steve begins carefully, “I asked you to stop—the exact word I used was 'don't'—and you didn't stop.”

Oh. Bucky was supposed to _obey_. He blinks. He _understands_ obedience. But Steve had—hadn't Steve been teaching him that 'want' was more important? He scrapes his teeth over his bottom lip, whispers, “But you wanted it.”

“I—what?” Steve shakes his head. “No, Bucky; I told you to stop—I said 'don't'.”

“But I _felt_ it!” Bucky hadn't imagined that, even with such a brief contact—he'd felt Steve's desire in the fullness of his cock. Standing up and waving his arms in broad swoops through the air, Bucky rages, “It's not _fair_ for you to change the rules now!” He'd only just started to remember the old ones.

He hasn't been in 'his' room all week. He goes there now, and slams the door. The cold finality of the sound echoes in his head as he tangles his fingers through his hair and pulls until the ache is red and sick.

o0o

“C'mon, Stevie.” Bucky leans his cheek against Steve's skinny knee, offering him a sweet smile, pleading through his lashes. “Let me suck your pretty cock; you know I love it.” He rubs his cheek, cat-like, against the worn material of Steve's slacks. The floor is hard under his own knees, but he doesn't mind.

“I am _trying_ to _work_ ,” Steve growls, tensing as he glares at the page in front of him. And it's fair, really; he has a hard enough time _getting_ work, so of course he wants to do a good job when he has it. But Bucky's...well, he's feeling a bit lonely, a bit neglected. He's gotten _so_ greedy once they started actually _doing_ this. Before, he was content to just _look_ , to hug now and then—whenever he could, whenever Steve would allow it—to ruffle Steve's hair and earn a swat. Now it's like a hunger he can't sate, forever crawling just under his skin.

“So work,” Bucky says, turning to press an open-mouth kiss to the side of Steve's knee and breathe out against the fabric to make it damp. He glances at Steve, lashes brushing his cheeks. “Do you need me to leave?”

Steve lets out a frustrated breath, and the wooden frame of the chair creaks as he shifts his weight in it. “No, just...” He blows out a puff of air through his lips. “Just let me _work_ , okay?”

“Can I stay here? Like this?” Bucky asks, running his hand up the back of Steve's calf and resting his head more heavily against his knee. “I just like to—”

“ _Fine_ ,” Steve snaps, shifting angrily in his chair. “Just be good, okay?”

Bucky smiles slyly—Steve isn't even looking at him. “Yeah...I'll be _so_ good.” And really, Steve should have heard that in his voice. He's quiet and still for a few minutes, just honestly enjoying Steve's nearness and drawing comfort from the simple contact. But then, as Steve's leaning over his work, eyes narrowed intently, Bucky shifts so he's more between Steve's knees—Steve doesn't react. Bucky noses his way along the inseam of Steve's slacks. Steve inhales sharply, but doesn't say anything, even leaves his legs nice and wide so Bucky has room. Reaching Steve's crotch, Bucky rubs his cheek against the slight bulge there, then turns his head and mouths at the fabric, moaning softly deep in his throat. Steve smells of heat and spice and life.

“ _Bucky_ ,” Steve says, voice edged with warning. Bucky grins, exultant, then opens his mouth again and nips at the hardening bulge. Steve's chair jumps back at least half an inch, legs loud against the worn wood of the floor. Steve's hand fists in Bucky's hair, long fingers twisting cruelly through the dark curls. “You want my dick that bad, Buck?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky breathes, nodding his head as best he can, face rubbing pleasantly against the bulge that is now _very_ hard. He lets his eyes go wide and watery as he looks up at Steve. “Want you so bad I can't help myself.”

Growling, Steve slaps down his pencil and moves the chair farther back from the table. Shoving Bucky's face against him once, he lets go, spreading his hands at his sides and gesturing to Bucky expectantly. “Well? Get on with it then.”

Bucky quivers all over in anticipation, trying not to grin so hard at getting his way—he grins so hard his face hurts. He quickly unzips Steve's fly with deft, practised hands, pulling Steve's glorious erection free. It's warm and silky over an unyielding centre. “So beautiful,” he breathes, lips brushing against the softness of the foreskin before he slides his mouth down over the whole thing. It's not all that long—though, to be fair, Bucky really only has his _own_ to compare, as Steve's the only other guy he's seen up this close—but it's nice and thick, and Bucky likes it. It's the most perfect cock he could imagine. (Of course, somehow, it's _still_ perfect even when it's gotten both longer _and_ thicker along with the rest of Steve. But that'll happen later.)

Both of Steve's hands are tangled in Bucky's hair and his hips are twitching—small, rhythmic almost-thrusts. “Bucky,” he pants, hands tightening their grip, “I was gonna do whatever you wanted once I was done for the night—I was gonna make _you_ feel good. But this is all you get now, understand?”

Bucky can't talk, what with a hot, hard cock sliding between his lips and against his tongue, but he manages something like 'Uh-huh' in the back of his throat. Drool is running down his chin—he lets it. He moves his tongue, desperate-quick, against the underside of Steve's cock then sucks, hard. Bucky has to blink against the tears that sting his eyes as Steve comes, hot and bitter, down his throat.

Steve's hands loosen in Bucky's hair and the chair creaks in protest as he slumps against it. “God, Buck,” he pants. “You're too good at that.” Flashing Steve a pleased smile, Bucky rubs his face against the inside of Steve's thigh, smearing saliva and semen onto the fabric. “Oh, Buck, you're _disgusting_!” Steve shoves at Bucky's head with a hand that's still shaky-weak from orgasm. “I hope you know you're washing these—and the rest of my clothes too.”

Bucky shrugs, tilting his head to one side and offering Steve a smile that's not quite apologetic. He can't really pretend it wasn't worth it. Leaning his cheek against the inside of Steve's other thigh—because, yeah, that mess he left on Steve's pants is really gross—he smiles dopily up into Steve's beautifully flushed face. “I love you, Stevie.”

Rolling his eyes, Steve lets out a mildly exasperated huff. “Yeah, you've _told_ me.”

Bucky tries for a sly little smile. “You really gonna leave me alone all night, Steve?”

Steve makes a soft, frustrated sound. “Never said I'd leave you _alone_ , Buck.” His eyes soften, and he runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, a gentle apology. “I'll never leave you alone.” Bucky grins up at him, bright and soft and so damn happy. Then Steve adds, “How about I come to bed and you can touch yourself while I watch?”

Rolling his eyes and giggling, Bucky presses his face further into Steve's wiry thigh. “You think I can't just touch myself whenever I want?”

Steve taps Bucky's cheek with his fingertips. “But you _want_ me to watch.” His eyes narrow slightly and his thumb presses against the corner of Bucky's mouth. “You'll writhe about, eyes wide and pleading with me to touch you, and I won't, but you'll feel my eyes on your skin—and you'll like it.” And of course he's right. Filthy little punk has a terrible habit of being _right_.

o0o

A soft knock on the bedroom door, Steve's voice quietly calling, “Bucky.”

“What?” Bucky snaps, still shaking, still hot and cold and prickling all over.

“Can I come in?” As if it isn't his damn house, as if he can't just do whatever he likes.

“ _No!_ ” Bucky flings himself face-down on the bed. It smells stupid and stale from disuse. And nothing at all like Steve.

o0o

The first night after they escape the Hydra base together, Steve cradles Bucky against his too-broad chest, whispering, low and quiet, near his ear, “I love you, Bucky. God, I love you so much.”

Steve's beautifully warm, but still Bucky shivers a bit. He tries for a laugh, but it comes out rough and fragile. “You miss my mouth that bad, punk?”

Steve's arms tighten around him, and he makes a sound like he's been punched. His voice is strained, edged in tears. “That's not—that's not what this is about.”

“Sorry,” Bucky tries, sure it won't be enough, but...his entire body feels like he's been infused with some sort of poison and it's burning just below the skin. His head feels like someone shoved a turbine in his brain and blended it all to mush. Steve assures him he'll get better, and he must be right; he's already been walking on his own and everything. It'll just take _time_.

Steve just kisses the top of his head, murmuring, “It's all right,” as the rest of the group politely pretends not to notice.

(Of course, Steve really did miss his mouth, as he makes abundantly clear with the way he twitches and shudders the first time Bucky manages to get the two of them somewhere private enough to see everything that's changed about his friend. And re-learn how to give a blowjob, because that whole thing won't even fit in his mouth anymore. It probably doesn't feel as good that way. But Steve doesn't seem to mind. Or even notice.)

o0o

It's quiet. Steve hasn't come into the room like Bucky expected. It's not like the door's locked, so...what? Rolling to his feet, Bucky walks over to the door and opens it. Steve's sitting against the wall, knee drawn up to his chest, turned to look at Bucky with sad, tired eyes. Steve doesn't say anything, so Bucky has to, because they were talking and it was important—Steve had said they _needed_ to talk. All that comes out is, “You didn't come in.”

“Of course not, Bucky,” Steve says, slowly standing up as if too fast a motion might spook Bucky. “You said no.”

But... That never stopped either one of them before.

And since when does Steve obey Bucky? Since when does Steve obey _anyone_?

Shaking his head, Bucky sits on the edge of his bed, forearms resting on his knees and hands clasped between them. “I don't remember all the details from before,” he admits, hair swinging forward to obscure his face, “but I thought I was getting it right.” Swallowing and clenching his jaw, he shakes his head again. Steve is hovering in the open door, so Bucky sighs and says, “Yes, Steve, please come in.” Looking up at Steve, he swallows again. “I don't—” His voice drops until it's too quiet, but Steve'll still be able to hear him. He ducks his head, shoulders hunching. “I don't want you to leave me alone.” His voice cracks as he presses his chin into his chest, saying, “You promised.”

Sitting down next to him without actually touching him, Steve begins, “You remember—you're remembering a lot from back then, aren't you?” Bucky nods, shoulders bunching up around his neck until his muscles hurt. But it's still not enough. Maybe it'll never be enough. Steve sighs. “Bucky...there are things we did... We—we loved each other...” He shakes his head, eyes staring unseeing at the floor. He sighs again, hands clasped loosely between his knees. “I guess I really am changing the rules, and that really isn't fair, because I didn't tell you before just now. But, Bucky...” He turns his head, eyes seeking Bucky's, so Bucky turns as well, meeting Steve's eyes. “It's possible for someone to want two contradictory things at the same time—that's something I need you to understand, okay?” Bucky nods, even though he's not sure he really does understand, but he's _trying_. “And what I want more than anything is for you to be safe. So—so I can't do anything that might hurt you, even things that you might _want_ , because _wanting_ something and being _ready_ for it can be different as well.”

Bucky shakes his head, adamant. “You wouldn't hurt me.” Steve is the gentlest person in the world, the kindest Bucky's ever met. And he wouldn't _need_ to hurt him—he could just stop looking at him for a while, and that would be punishment enough.

Steve grimaces. “I know it doesn't feel like I would, and it probably wouldn't even feel like I was...” He lets out a quiet, helpless breath. “But Bucky, the important thing I need you to do—this is _really_ important, okay?” Bucky nods, because what else could he do? “If I—or anyone—asks you to stop, says 'no' or 'don't' or anything like that, when you're trying to touch them—even if you think they _want_ you to touch them—you need to stop.” His eyes are so sincere. Bucky swallows. Steve continues, “Because you have to respect what someone _says_ , respect their _words_ , when they're saying no—and I know that's not always how we did it before, but that's going to be the rule from now on.”

Frowning, Bucky plays over the earlier encounter in his head, needing to understand where he went wrong. “So when you said 'don't', I should have stopped touching you.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Steve nods, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.

Bucky nods slowly. “I'll remember.” Steve offers him a gentle smile, and Bucky asks, “Am—can I touch you again? Now?”

“Yes, but.” Steve holds up his hands. “That depends on what you mean, on how you want to touch me.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. “I _remember_ ; if you say 'no' or 'don't' or 'stop', then I _stop_.” He drops his gaze to his hands. “I just wanted...I wanted to—to put my head on your shoulder.”

“Yeah, of course, Bucky—c'mere.” Steve pulls Bucky against his side, stroking soothing fingers through Bucky's hair as Bucky rests his head on Steve's muscled shoulder.

After a short time of just breathing in Steve's soothing scent and drawing comfort from the contact, Bucky asks, “Can I still sleep in your bed with you tonight?”

“If you want, yeah.” Steve presses a kiss to the top of Bucky's head. “I wouldn't make you sleep alone if you didn't want to.”

Pressing his face into Steve's neck, Bucky smiles tiredly against his warm skin. It's still morning, but he feels like he'd like to curl up with Steve again _now_. At least for an hour or two. “Said you'd never leave me alone,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, Buck.” Steve kisses his hair again. “I remember.”

Pulling back so he can look into Steve's face, Bucky brushes his fingers from Steve's cheekbone down to his jaw. “You really are so pretty, Stevie.”

A light pink blush dusts Steve's cheeks, and he ducks his head. “Thanks.”

Bucky licks his lips. “Can I touch myself while you watch?”

Steve chokes, blinks several times, looks everywhere but at Bucky. “Um, wow.” He blinks a few more times, swallows thickly. “But...not—I mean—” He grimaces, eyes pleading as they finally meet Bucky's. “I have to say no Bucky, not now, not yet. But, you know...” He looks away again. “Of course you can touch yourself—in here or in the shower or...”

Bucky shakes his head, mouth twisted into an unhappy line. “Wanna be with you.” It was always better with Steve there.

“I get it,” Steve says, patting Bucky's knee. “I understand. It's just—it's not something we're ready for yet.”

“When, then?” Bucky asks, trying not to let the whine into his voice.

Steve shakes his head, sad eyes sincere. “I don't know.”

Steve says 'we', but of course it's _Bucky_ they're waiting for. _Bucky's_ the broken one. “I have been trying,” he says, voice deep and rough. “I have been trying _so hard_.”

“I know,” Steve says, pulling Bucky against his chest again and stroking his back, his shoulders, his hair. “I know.” Bucky just sobs into his shirt for a while.

Maybe he doesn't remember it all yet, but he's pretty sure he liked the old rules better. At least then, they got to _do_ things.

o0o

Bucky borrows a skirt from Peggy one evening. Well, 'borrows' isn't quite the right word, since she dresses him up in it as if he's a doll. He wears nothing at all underneath. He wants to try heels, but his feet are far bigger than hers, so she paints his toenails bright red, and that's possibly even better. He has no hope of fitting into any of her blouses, so he wears one of his own shirts, open to expose his chest, and Peggy loops a string of pearls around his neck, kissing his cheek and telling him he's adorable and that Steve is going to want to pounce the moment he walks through the door.

Bucky puts his uniform hat and jacket on Peggy over her bra and panties—they know how much Steve loves her legs, so they leave them bare—and she dons the highest heels she has, so Steve won't know which direction to pounce first.

They don't have to wait too long for Steve to get back, and when he does, he blushes so hard he can't even look at them, sitting on the bed and covering his face with both hands.

“Come on, Stevie,” Bucky coos, stroking his fingers through his hair, but Steve just shakes his head.

“Steve Rogers,” Peggy says, and she sounds as if she's addressing a group of raw recruits, “you will hold your head up and keep your eyes likewise in my presence.”

Steve raises his head at her command, blue eyes bright and helpless. “You two're ganging up on me.” He bites his lip. “It's not fair.”

“Sergeant,” Peggy says, “if you could assist the Captain with his clothes...” So of course Bucky does, because Steve's really going to have to be naked for this. _Bucky_ won't be; he'll keep the skirt on.

Later that night, Steve begs Peggy to paint his toenails as well. Then, all three of them match. It really is too bad they can't take a picture.

o0o

With Natasha's help, Bucky gets a skirt. She doesn't even ask why he wants one—doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow—just acts like it's a perfectly normal request, and walks him through different styles on her tablet, making sure he's clear about things like colour and length and if he really just wants the one. Red, knee-length pleated, just one for now. Maybe one day he'll want a blue one, or a white. White would probably be nice, actually. White with ruffles and a bit of lace.

When Steve sees him wearing it, his eyes and mouth both open wide, and he stares before he can stop himself and look away. Bucky stands just inside the kitchen where Steve had been putting away groceries, suddenly feeling very uncomfortable from the way Steve's eyes _aren't_ on him. “You can tell me no, tell me to stop,” he tries, but Steve shakes his head.

“No, actually...I can't.” Swallowing, he straightens up, squaring his shoulders and meeting Bucky's eyes with renewed resolve. “It's not up to me how you dress, Bucky; you're free to wear whatever you like.”

Bucky tries not to shuffle his feet, tries not to twist his fingers together, wishes he hadn't even remembered this. “But it makes you uncomfortable.”

Steve shakes his head. “I was surprised,” he says, and while it's true, it's not the whole truth and they both know it. “But Bucky...you don't have to change anything about how you look just because it makes someone else uncomfortable—the only person who needs to be comfortable with how _you_ look is _you_.”

“I just...” Bucky chews his lip. “I remembered.”

Closing the distance between them, Steve pulls him into a hug, arms sure and strong and yet so _careful_. “I remember too,” he admits into Bucky's hair. “That was a—well.” He chuckles softly. “It was a memorable night.”

After a moment, Bucky pulls back, tugging awkwardly at his hair with his flesh hand. “I should...go change.” He blows out a breath through his lips. Steve is, of course, gentle and kind, but it's still not how he'd hoped Steve would react.

“Only if you want to,” Steve says quickly. “Not because of me.”

But Bucky _does_ want to, and _of course_ it's because of Steve. It's always because of Steve.

He's trying. He's still trying. Maybe one day it'll be enough.

o0o

(This isn't exactly how it happened, but this is how he _remembers_ it.)

Steve's dropped his shield, and Bucky needs to stop the monsters. He reaches for the shield, but Steve yells, “Bucky, no!” Shaking his head, Bucky picks it up anyway. It's Steve's, but when has he ever let that stop him from touching, from taking?

The shield is more a target than a barrier; it draws their fire.

Bucky's hanging from the most unreliable of threads, hurtling through space with vicious little shards of ice whipping through his hair and stabbing his eyes. Steve is reaching, saying, “Grab my hand!” Bucky _tr_ _i_ _es_. Muscles straining, reaching, aching. It's not enough.

(This part, he knows never happened, couldn't happen, but his mind wraps it in bright gold light and speckles it with stunning, vivid detail.)

He drags himself from the snow, pulls his broken body off the rocks...and he's not exactly 'okay', but he's _alive_. And he can _walk_. So he walks, snow crunching under his boots. He finds Steve in the darkness of a forest, eyes wide and lost when he sees Bucky—like he never expected, but still hoped.

Bucky throws him against a tree trunk and _bites_ him, pressing fully against him so he can't get away again. The fresh, cold smell of pine fills his nose, but there is Steve as well: sweat and blood and the taste of his tongue, the taste of his tears. There are things in his mind, words he should say, but he doesn't have to, because Steve understands. Steve is large and small at once, and he trembles as Bucky shoves against him.

o0o

Bucky wakes, and he's so hard it hurts. He presses his metal fist to his mouth to stifle a sob so he won't wake Steve. The place where their bare biceps touch sears with the heat of desperate contact.

In one smooth motion, Bucky rolls on top of Steve, kissing him harshly so he can't speak, can't say anything at all. He's pressing down, but he's shaking too badly to move properly, and finally he has to break the kiss to breathe, so he just collapses, hiding his face in Steve's neck and sobbing.

But Steve's stroking his hair, stroking his back, not pushing him away, and all he's saying is, “It's all right, Bucky,” and, “I've got you; you're safe.”

“I love you,” Bucky says, pushing himself upright so he can swipe miserably at his face, sniffing. He's straddling Steve's hips, and Steve still isn't pushing him off.

“And I love you,” Steve replies, lacing his fingers through Bucky's metal ones like maybe he wants to keep him there. Bucky bites his lip against a sob, gaze dropping to where he's _throbbing_ , aching with the desire just...to _feel_... Steve's grimace is filled with apologetic sympathy. He bites his own lip, eyes sliding away. “You...you really haven't touched...?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I _can't_.” He tried, in the shower, like Steve said. He had to stop before he punched his metal hand through the tiled wall in disgusted frustration. He has been _trying_ not to break Steve's things. He shudders. He needs _Steve_. He's sure there must have been a time when he didn't, when he really could do it on his own. But he can't now, and maybe that's why...why he's not allowed this yet. Maybe he needs more time to get better. He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't want to wait. This is fucking _torture_ , and...

“Bucky, gosh...” Steve's hand is warm and sure, gripping the side of Bucky's muscled thigh—and is he even aware he's doing that? “There has to be—what can I do to help?”

Bucky swallows down a desperate giggle, biting the inside of his lip. There are _so many_ things Steve could do, so many things Bucky would claw his own eyes out to be allowed again. But maybe... He takes a breath and tosses out the words like dice, “Could you watch me while I touch myself?”

Steve closes his eyes for a moment, but the word that slips through his lips in a quiet breath is, “Yeah.” He opens his eyes, meets Bucky's gaze. “We can do that, if you want.”

Steve even lets Bucky hold his hand with his other hand while he does it, ends up with both his human hands tangled around Bucky's metal arm, flesh fingers threaded through silver ones and his other arm curling around Bucky's metal bicep. “God, _Steve_ ,” Bucky pants.

“You're doing so well,” Steve murmurs, voice warm and filled with approval. “Just a little more...” There's a catch in Steve's breath, and then he says, “Come for me,” and Bucky spills all over his hand, shocked lights confusing his vision and sparkling under his skin. His body twitches involuntarily and he gasps as Steve presses a kiss to his sweat-damp temple.

Bucky stares at him with wide eyes, because that was wonderful, but he doesn't know what to do now. His hand is wet and sticky. So are his belly and parts of his chest. “I made a mess,” he says dully.

“It's fine,” Steve assures him with another kiss. “I can help you get cleaned up, all right?” Bucky nods, still dazed, but when Steve moves to get out of bed, Bucky makes a pleading sound, clutching at him with his metal fingers. “I'm just going to get a cloth,” Steve explains, pressing his soft lips to Bucky's metal knuckles. “I'll be right back.” So Bucky finally lets him go, and Steve really is 'right back' a moment later, a warm, wet washcloth in his hand. “Do you want me to...?” He holds up the cloth as he kneels next to Bucky on the bed.

Letting out a breath, Bucky lets his eyes fall closed. “If you want.” His words are a little slurred as his body tries to pull him back into the warm, dark embrace of sleep, but he manages to say, “I'll let you know if I want you to stop.”

Chuckling softly, Steve leans in to press a kiss to Bucky's chest as he begins to clean the mess off him with the cloth. “Good, Bucky; yeah, that's good.”

Bucky blinks at him, body feeling warm and fuzzy and heavy. And loved. And safe. “Love you, Stevie,” he whispers, and the words have never felt more true.

 


End file.
